The Case of Santa Claus
by ValkeryVale
Summary: Four year old Hamish Watson-Holmes is on the case, to solve the mystery of Santa Claus.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock had been dreading this moment, since John had asked to go to the Christmas market. Santa Claus. A fictional character, brought to life each year by countless old men, who most likely were out of work alcoholics and addicts, who would prey upon guillabile children and nostalgic parents, and weave lies about flying reindeer and the amount of favors that would be bestowed upon them if they were good little children. He sat there on a throne in the plaza, surrounded by fellow miscreants dressed in outlandish costumes as they helped to organize and bring forth the next unwitting victim of this centuries old farce.

Sherlock gave a quick glance down at Hamish and over to John, as they made their way through the crowd hand in hand. Perhaps they had not noticed yet...and gave a slight pull to take his family into another direction, away from this insanity. But Hamish gave a tug back and stood steadfast, staring in slight awe at the scene before them.

Throughout this month, Hamish had seen numerous Santa Clauses, but this whole scene was different, complete with a house and sleigh, and what appeared to be real reindeer. As his father's son, Hamish began his deductions.

The telly and movies he had seen gave part of the story, and certainly the stories that papa had read to him gave him some indication as to what to expect, but these were partial truths that had been handed down generation after generation, who really knew the facts? Given the sheer number of copy cats Hamish had seen, careful observations must be made to determine, if in fact, this was the real Santa Claus.

The suspect was wearing a red suit, with white fur trim. Although, the reflective nature of the trim gave away that this was not real fur. Perhaps money was tight in the Claus household. Slightly obese, possibly due to consumption of cookies, if the tales were true. Ruddy complexion...could be from the coldness of the day or excessive drinking. Considering the stress the man must be under, he could have turn to alcohol to help him manage. This was the first time Hamish had seen Santa Claus at work, and at four years of age, he did not have much recall to draw upon in regards to Santa. Father was very wise and had eons of experience, perhaps...

Hamish looked up at his father, and could see the tightness of his face. Father was...unhappy, holding back, clearly wanting to say something, but was thinking perhaps not...then father flicked his eyes over to papa. Hamish turned his head towards papa, who was giving father "the look". Papa bent his head down at Hamish and gave a soft smile, then warmly looked over the children laughing with eager eyes as the man in the Santa suit let out a hardy "Ho Ho Ho!", which made Hamish look back at his suspect.

"Father, do you think that this is the real Santa Claus?" Hamish asked very carefully, without taking his eyes off the man in question.

John gave Sherlock a pleading look. For John, Santa Claus was a wonderful part of his childhood Christmas memories, and he wanted that for Hamish, however briefly. He and Sherlock had at least agreed to allow Hamish to discover on his own what he believed.

Sherlock knelt down and gave Hamish a quick peck on the cheek, as he looked over his son. His soft black curls covered in a sock hat, with Sherlock's old blue scarf tied around his neck, the ends nearly touched the ground. Despite John bundling him up with mittens and a black top coat just like Sherlock's, the tip of Hamish's nose was red as were his cheeks. Hamish's adorable face gleemed with a curiosity that made Sherlock so proud.

"You've already observed the scene, what are your deductions so far?" Sherlock asked.

Hamish carefully considered before responding,

"It's possible that this is the real Santa." Anything was possible.

Hamish folded his arms and rested his chin on his palm, deep in thought. He came to a decision and leaned over to father.

"I think we should interview the suspect," Hamish said in a whisper into his father's ear.

Sherlock gave his young son a broad smile and stood. "Right then, remember what to look for, what the key indicators of an equivocator are."

Hamish gave an affirming nod, placed his hand in his father's as they marched over to the blessedly short queue, with John following quickly behind.

John hissed at Sherlock in a quiet whisper, "Sherlock, you promised me that - "

Sherlock just raised his hand and gave a mischevious smirk, "I am doing exactly what we agreed upon, letting him deduce for himself."

John opened his mouth to speak again, but just let it go, and shrugged in defeat.

Hamish stood in line in front of his parents, leaning over to the side to see around the people ahead of him, but he could only see the black boots that the man was wearing. There were made of synthetic material, not leather, although the brass buckle looked real. The boots were well worn, with numerous scuff marks. He needed to be higher up to get a better look at the rest of the man.

Hamish tugged at his father's trouser and held his arms up. Sherlock quickly scooped him up and turned him around. From this vantage point, Hamish could observe much better.

John looked over the Santa and was fairly impressed. He had a real beard and long white hair, no makeup required. He spoke with a kind voice and a pleasant demeanor, with a hardy laugh. Perhaps he could fool his son...John very much wished he could.


	2. Chapter 2

Hamish watched the young girl that sat on Santa Claus's lap and her mother that hovered close by. The girl was smiling and with a giggle, she leaned into the man and whispered quietly into his ear. Hamish could only catch the words 'wood' and 'horse'. Santa glanced over to the mother who gave the slightest of nods, and then Santa said,

"I do think that can be arranged by dear, granted you've been a good girl this year?" and gave a little wink.

The little girl nodded enthusiastically. Santa placed his arm around her shoulders and gave a small hug, as he exclaimed,

"What a good girl! Merry Christmas my dear!"

The little girl hopped down and skipped away with her mother, turned back a moment and gave Santa a cheerful wave.

Santa turned his attention towards Hamish, opened his arms wide and broke out a big smile. Clearly he anticipated the boy would come sit with him. Hamish slowly stepped in front of the man and clasped his hands behind his back, before requesting,

"Just a moment please."

Santa folded his hands on his lap and continued to smile. This was not the first child he had dealt with, who had a twinkle of doubt in their eye.

Sherlock beamed with pride as he watched Hamish's eyes sweep from the ground, up and around, taking every bit of detail, and then settled on the man's face. The restless sounds of the other children waiting in line caught Hamish's attention, so he took a hesitant step forward and allowed Santa to pull him up onto his lap.

John quickly stepped forward with his phone, for a snapshot of what may be the one and only visit with Santa Claus.

Hamish gave his papa an impatient wave, took a deep breath and started his interrogation.

"Sir, what is your name?" asked Hamish, with determination.

Santa gave a thin playful smile and responded with confidence, "Santa Claus."

"Are you claiming to be the man of legend or is that just your given name?" Hamish asked.

"I am, as you say, the man of legend," Santa responded and glanced down towards the left. Hamish gave a smirk at the classic sign of a lie, and he moved in for the kill.

"If you are who you say you are, then where do I live?" Hamish asked smugly.

"Why 221B Baker St., of course!"

Santa smiled widely, as he glanced over to Sherlock and John. Even John could see the look of recognition in Santa's eyes...nice to be a minor celebrity in the London newspapers. John gave Sherlock a playful nudge and a satisfied smile.

Hamish sat wide-eyed and gave a slight panicked look towards his father. Father's face had a bit of disappointment on it, but father gave a nod of encouragement. Perhaps Hamish had asked the wrong question. Hamish gathered his thoughts and inquired,

"And where do you live, sir?"

Santa turned up his eyes and gave a point up with his finger,

"The North Pole."

"With your wife Mrs. Claus?"

Santa just gave a nod and a smile.

"And how many elves do you employ?"

Santa gave a glance down as he thought of a reasonable number to give the inquisitive lad.

Hamish took this opportunity of hesitation to lean in and whisper,

"Don't bother, I know you're lying."

Hamish leaned back with a expectant smile, hoping he had correctly called the man's bluff.

Santa took a moment and seemed to come to a decision. He leaned in close to prevent anyone from ease dropping, and quietly gave a whisper of his own,

"Clever boy! You're right of course. I am not Santa Claus."

Hamish beamed with satisfaction. He had broken his first suspect under interrogation!

Santa leaned in again, cautiously adding,

"I do work for the Claus family, providing reconnaissance, while Santa runs the workshop and prepares for Christmas. London is my station and I have kept a watchful eye on the people here. I even remember when your parents Sherlock and John were small like you."

Hamish's confidence fell a bit and deep confusion spread across his face. How did this man know where he lived and his parents' names? His story must be true...but Hamish still had doubts. He was determined to get to the bottom of this mystery. He leaned in and whispered in the man's ear,

"Tell your boss that Hamish Watson-Holmes is on the case and I will not stop until I get my man." Hamish hesitated and then continued,

"And...let him know I've been a very good boy this year and would certainly appreciate a new chemistry set."

Better safe than sorry. With a nod, Hamish extended his hand, Santa returned the gesture and gave a strong handshake. But before Hamish could jump down, Santa gave him a big hug.

"Merry Christmas my boy!"

Santa released the boy, smiled and gave a wink. Hamish could not help but smile back and wave.

Sherlock strode past, threw a look of disdain towards the man, and followed Hamish. John walked to Santa and mouthed a quick "Thank you" before chasing after his husband and son.

John was over the moon...that could not have gone better! As he caught up to Sherlock and Hamish, he could see they were in deep discussion, no doubt Sherlock was trying to do some damage control.

John grabbed up his son's other hand and smiled down at him, and then asked,

"So, Hamish...what did you ask Santa for Christmas?"

"Oh, that man was not Santa Claus," Hamish said cooly. "He confessed it to me."

John could not conceal his disappointment while at the same time Sherlock could not conceal his glee.

Hamish looked between his parents and continued,

"No, that man is simply an agent of the Claus family. But I sent Santa a message."

With one day remaining until Christmas Eve, Hamish must be ready. He must formulate a plan immediately...but maybe after some hot chocolate.

Hamish turned his face up to his father and shifted his eyes slightly at the vendor selling hot chocolate. Sherlock silently reached into his pocket and gave his son some money. John watched the wordless communication and grinned happily, as did Sherlock.

As they both gazed at their child, Sherlock slid his arm up and around John, pulled him in close, and gave a loving kiss on John's forehead.

His heart ached with love for them both..."John, I never imagined how much..." And the words drifted away.

John simply nodded and his face flushed, "I know, me neither..."


	3. Chapter 3

John glanced at the clock as he stirred awake. 8:30am. He had allowed himself a bit of a slow morning. He had the day off, hoping to get a few things done around the flat before the party tonight, Christmas Eve.

He glanced over to Sherlock, who had fallen asleep with a book laying open across his chest. John reached over, carefully pulled the book out and set it aside.

He placed his palm onto Sherlock's chest, before calling out firmly,

"Sherlock, time to wake up," and gave him a little shake.

A grunt and a mumbled word rumbled through Sherlock's chest.

"Sherlock, Lestrade is on his way over, get up!" followed by a more persistent push.

Silence.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock's body shuttered and he bolted straight up.

"What?" he snapped at John.

"Get up!" John shouted back.

"I am up..." Sherlock mumbled as he slid his feet off the bed.

"Sure you are," John said as he stood and pulled his dressing gown on, then told Sherlock,

"I'll get Hamish up, he had wanted to talk to Greg."

"What for?" Sherlock turned his head towards John.

"I dunno, he had just asked to speak to him when he came over," John said as he walked out of the room.

He climbed the stairs and pushed into Hamish's room, or at least tried to. The child's room was a complete mess, with clothes and toys, stacks of books and miscellaneous chemistry equipment strewn about. A wind storm could pass through and the room would be neater.

Hamish was sleeping on top of the covers, in his favorite plaid pajamas, knees tucked under his chest, head leaning on his forearm, all atop a dozen or so maps of the world.

_How does he sleep like that?_ John thought to himself as he shook his head. John crept up to the bed, ran his hand down his son's back and savored the moment. It was nice to see him so...still.

"Hamish," John said softly.

A grunt and a whine came out.

"Hamish. Time to get up."

"I don't want a bunny," Hamish mumbled in his sleep.

John suppressed a giggle and spoke louder,

"Hamish!"

Hamish sat straight up with one of the maps stuck to his forehead.

John reached out and pulled it off, then placed a hand on his son's shoulder and gave him a little shake.

"Uncle Greg is coming over, you said you wanted to speak to him."

Hamish's eyes sleepily opened and closed, and as understanding spread across Hamish's face, he leapt off the bed towards the door shouting,

"Uncle Greg!"

John reached out and grabbed his arm. "No, no he's not here yet."

"Then why did you wake me?" Hamish pouted.

"I wanted you to get ready before he gets here."

"I am very much ready to see him," Hamish mumbled as he rubbed his eyes. Hamish had formulated a plan last night. Well, most of a plan. He would have finished except he had apparently fallen asleep.

"You need to bathe and have some breakfast," John said firmly.

"Tedious," Hamish said under his breath as he rolled his eyes.

John gave his son a very stern look. 'Tedious' was one of the top words on the household banned words list.

"Sorry papa," Hamish said sheepishly.

John pursed his lips together in a tight forgiving smile and waved,

"Go on, get the tub started and I'll be right there," John said as he started to gather and stack the maps atop of each other, then he called out,

"No scuba fins this time!"

* * *

Sherlock emerged from his bedroom in his pajamas and dressing gown, and walked into the kitchen. Hamish sat at the table chewing on toast as John puttered behind him.

Sherlock made his way over to the kettle just as John turned and handed him a cup of tea. Sherlock smiled appreciatively as he took it and settled down next to his son. John followed with a plate of toast. Sherlock gave John a look of protest, which John returned with a silent, deadly insistent look of his own. Sherlock quietly took the plate.

Hamish gave his father a sympathetic smile and shrug of his shoulders, just as the sound of the front door opening floated upstairs.

Hamish could tell it was his Uncle Greg by the shuffle and footfalls. When Uncle Greg emerged at the top of the stairs, he had a big box tucked under his arm and he was dressed casually, so must be his day off.

_Perfect_, Hamish thought to himself.

Uncle Greg broke out a broad smile as he entered the kitchen,

"Hello! Breakfast time?" Greg beamed at Hamish, set the box down, and reached out to give a ruffle of Hamish's unruly curls.

Hamish tolerated the gesture. He needed to be nice to Uncle Greg, since he was going to ask him for a favor.

"'Morning Greg, want a cuppa?" John asked cheerfully.

"Yes, definitely, thank you," Greg said as he settled into the open chair.

"What's in the box?" Hamish asked as he leaned forward to try and see inside.

"For your sake, I hope it's the cold cases I requested," Sherlock grumbled menacingly as he stared daggers at Greg.

"For all our sakes," John mumbled as he set a cup of tea down in front of Greg.

"What are you up to today Uncle Greg?" Hamish inquired as innocently as he could muster.

"Well, I've got the day off today. Thought I might do a bit of Christmas shopping. Still have a few names on my list," Greg said just before bringing the cup up to his lips to take a sip.

Hamish folded his hands together in front of him, rested his chin on his knuckles, and started to think.

Father was staring at him out of the corner of his eye and then looked over to Greg and then back at him, his eyes narrowed in a question. Hamish looked away.

Father leaned forward and pulled the box closer to him as he said,

"Lestrade, do you mind taking Hamish with you? I believe he has yet to purchase a gift for John and I. I'm sure John would like to do some preparations for the party tonight without Hamish underfoot"

Greg set his cup down, and said as he smiled at Hamish,

"No, I don't mind at all. You up for a bit a shopping Hamish?"

Hamish pretended to consider for a moment, before responding sweetly,

"Why yes, that would be lovely Uncle Greg."

"You don't really have to take him Greg, I can take him out later." John waffled, although a few child free hours would be a blessing.

"No, really. It'll be nice having Hamish help me, he's probably already deduced what everyone would like for a present." Greg said with a smile, and gave Hamish a nudge on the shoulder.

John reached around Hamish and took the plate away as he said,

"Well go on, get your shoes and coat. Mittens, scarf and hat too!" John called after Hamish as he scampered out of the room.

* * *

Uncle Greg and Hamish strolled through the market, looking for the brand of whiskey that was papa's favorite. Hamish slowly munched on caramel popcorn, looking for the right moment to ask Uncle Greg...well, now or never he supposed.

"Uncle Greg. If one knows when and where a crime is going to be committed, wouldn't one be obligated to report to the police? Especially a serious crime...like...breaking and entering?" Hamish asked cautiously with a raised brow.

"I suppose so. Why do you ask that Hamish?" Greg gave his honorary nephew a curious glance, then slowed his walking pace and quickly asked,

"Has your father been breaking into your Uncle Mycroft's office again?"

"No, not Uncle Mycroft's office -"

"My office?" Greg interupted.

"No, no. At least...not recently." Hamish thought back to a few months ago.

Greg narrowed his eyes at Hamish,

"What are you on about Hamish?"

Hamish cast his eyes to the nearby bench and the two of them walked over and sat down. Hamish looked to Greg like he had a terrible burden to unload.

"You and father and papa. You catch criminals, right?"

Greg nodded.

"And breaking and entering is a crime, right?"

Greg nodded again.

Hamish let out a huge stressful sigh, looked his uncle in the eyes, and the words just started to tumble out of him.

"If anyone is going to catch him, I'd rather it be you and father. Perhaps you can give him a warning or something. Besides, if we were to stake out the flat, I would get the chance to prove he's real. Pr-prove it de-definitively." Hamish stammered.

A confused look was deeply embedded into Uncle Greg's face. He was trying to follow the four-year old's words. But really, Greg just did not understand what the boy blabbering about.

"Who are we talking about Hamish?" Greg asked impatiently.

"Santa Claus!" Hamish exclaimed, getting himself a bit worked up. "He's breaking the law with im-im-impuney-"

"Impunity," Greg corrected.

"Yes, impunity. And he's been doing for decades! I know father says that the police are incomten-incompet-imcont - "

"Incompetent," Greg corrected with a sigh and roll of the eyes.

"Right. I mean, how has he eluded the police all this time?!" Hamish said excitedly, worked up enough that his breathing had sped up.

Greg reached over and placed his arm across Hamish's small shoulders and patted his leg.

"Ok, it's ok Hamish. Just take a deep breath, ok?" Greg said soothingly, trying to get Hamish to calm down while buying himself some time to think of how to talk to Hamish about this. Santa Claus...surely this was a subject for his parents. Well, Greg knew what John would want. He knew how hard John fought to keep Hamish a little boy just as Sherlock insisted on treating Hamish like a small adult.

"Look, Hamish. Santa Claus is...well," Greg looked up to the heavens. "See, Santa...he's got a permit to...trespass. To go into people houses. Since he's not stealing anything, he's not really breaking the law. In fact, he's leaving presents behind isn't he?" Greg looked down at Hamish.

Hamish nodded and considered for a moment, before looking up at Uncle Greg. "He takes the cookies."

"Yes, but people leave those out for him to take, don't they?"

Hamish nodded his head, and then asked.

"So, the government just lets him go into people's homes?"

"Yep," Greg nodded vigorously. "Yes Hamish,that's right. The government knows all about what Santa is up to. And they're just fine with it." Greg said, with a hope that this was enough to satisfy Hamish.

Hamish worried his bottom lip a little. He still wanted Uncle Greg's help, so he gathered himself up and took a deep, calming breath.

"Can we stake out the flat anyways?" Hamish asked, giving his uncle his best pleading look.

"I've projected possible delivery routes that he would take across the globe and estimated the time he would arrive at the flat tonight to be between 12:30-3:30am. I could...I mean we would all see him, prove he's real." Hamish looked up at his uncle, "Please?"

Greg's heart just ached for the youngster. He remembered, desperately believing in Santa. He was absolutely crushed to find out he wasn't real. Crushed.

"Hamish..." Greg looked down. "I'll think about it, ok? I'll talk to your papa, alright?"

Hamish slowly nodded. He knew what that meant. 'Think about it' was just a euphemism for NO, never going to happen. Uncle Greg gave Hamish a useless pat on the shoulder, and they started to walk again.

Hamish's mind scrambled for what he should do next. Perhaps he could hack into the government databases, although he got into soooo much trouble the last time he used his papa's computer. Maybe he should ask father for help, maybe they could break into Uncle Mycroft's office, but he didn't want to trouble father with...

Uncle Mycroft.

_Uncle Mycroft was the British Government!_ Father and papa had said that many, many times.

And the government knew all about what Santa Claus was up to.

Hamish looked up at Uncle Greg and slowed to a stop.

"Can we visit Uncle Mycroft?"


	4. Chapter 4

There are many things in life that Gregory Lestrade felt capable of handling deftly and efficiently - Armed criminals, snarky colleagues, mountains of bureaucracy, and the great Sherlock Holmes among them.

A whining, pleading four year old, who has resorted to crying and screaming, in the middle of the market,

"I want to see Uncle Mycroft! I want to see Uncle Mycroft! I want to see Uncle Mycroft!"

Was not one of the things he ever had imagined he would need to handle.

There was no reasoning with Hamish. As mature and intelligent of a child as he was, at the very heart of it, he was a four year old boy, an only child, and very much accustomed to getting his own way.

All that Greg could do, to make the tears, the stomping and yelling stop was to slowly nod his head and agree,

"Alright Hamish, alright. I'll take you to see your Uncle Mycroft. Ok, just, stop please," Greg pleaded.

Hamish's bottom lip quivered as he tried to ebb the flow of tears and snot. He sniffled a bit and went to wipe his nose with the sleeve of his coat, but quickly remembered the handkerchief in his pocket. He pulled it out and Uncle Greg silently took it and helped him blow his nose.

All the onlookers turned their interest elsewhere and Greg felt relieved. The looks of pity and judgments where hard to handle, and while he loved his honorary nephew, it was times like these where he was relieved he only took charge of Hamish every once in a while.

Hamish felt terrible, really did, about causing a scene. Having to resort to throwing a tantrum was quite embarrassing, but effective. He grabbed Uncle Greg's hand and looked up to him, giving him a small smile.

Greg looked down at Hamish and sighed. He took out his mobile, and dialed Mycroft Holmes' number. As the phone rang, Hamish's words 'I want to see Uncle Mycroft' echoed in his head and Greg couldn't help think to himself '_I don't want to see Uncle Mycroft'_, when the phone was answered.

"Gregory, to what do I owe the pleasure."

"Yes, um, Hello Mycroft." Greg looked down at Hamish then continued, "I've got Hamish with me and he's asked to see you."

"I see. Do you know why he has made such an unusual request?"

"No, between the crying and screaming, I never could get that out of him," Greg said as he turned a stern eye down at Hamish, who had suddenly grown a deep interest in the ground.

Mycroft sighed. Children were not his strong suit. He glanced at the only framed family photo he had on his desk, that of Sherlock, John with Hamish seated between them. Well, he supposed he could spare some time for his only nephew. And it would give him an opportunity to see Gregory again after far too long.

* * *

Greg and Hamish were waved into Mycroft's office. Mycroft was standing behind his desk and came around the front to greet them with an outstretched hand, which Greg eyed suspiciously before returning the gesture with a weak smile.

Mycroft looked at the both of them before asking,

"Been out for a bit of Christmas shopping?" Mycroft inquired politely.

"Yes, we were going to make a day of it but Hamish insisted on seeing you," Greg said quietly as he glanced at Mycroft and then looked away.

Mycroft saw the caution in Gregory's eyes, looked down at Hamish for a moment, and then back to Gregory's eyes. He considered his words carefully.

"How...How have you been?"

_As if you don't know_, Greg thought to himself before he gave a huff of laughter and said,

"You mean since..." Greg gave a raised eyebrow. "I'm fine." Greg tried to pour in as much aloofness as possible.

"I know you had asked for time to - "

"Yes, well...I think we can discuss that later," Greg interrupted and cleared his throat.

Hamish glanced between his uncles curiously. Uncle Mycroft's body was very still, his face was glacial and there was nothing Hamish could read. Uncle Greg's body was coiled in such tension that it seemed the wrong word would set him off.

Interesting.

Uncle Mycroft leaned over a bit, looked right at Hamish and asked,

"Hamish, what can I do for you today?"

Hamish shifted his eyes to the side towards Uncle Greg then back to give his Uncle Mycroft a slight raise of the eyebrows. Uncle Mycroft gave a nearly imperceptible nod as he straightened up.

"Gregory, I'm sure you still have some shopping to complete. I'll take charge of Hamish, make sure he gets home," Mycroft said as he slid his hands behind his back. "Gives Hamish and I some time to talk privately."

Greg eyes narrowed in a question, which he shook away as he turned from Mycroft to Hamish,

"Is that alright with you or do you want me to stay?" Greg asked.

Hamish shook his head,

"That's fine Uncle Greg. Thanks for taking me shopping," Hamish said as he stepped in front of Uncle Greg, leaned in and hugged at his legs.

Uncle Greg knelt down and returned the hug, and then looked his nephew in the eye.

"You sure?" Greg asked.

"Yes, I'm sure," Hamish nodded his head and smiled.

Greg stood up, looked at Mycroft and gave a meaningful nod towards the outer office.

Mycroft gazed at Hamish and said,

"Hamish, why don't you make yourself comfortable while I speak with your Uncle Gregory for a moment? Would you like anything? Tea perhaps?"

"Do you have any hot chocolate?" Hamish asked as he pulled off his hat, which caused his curly hair to flop up.

Mycroft smiled broadly and responded,

"I'm sure that can be arranged."

Greg and Mycroft stepped through into the outer office and closed the door behind them. Mycroft paused to ask his secretary to get Hamish a hot chocolate, and they both watched her as she walked away.

Alone in the outer office, Greg started to speak, hesitantly.

"Look, earlier today...Hamish was going on about Santa Claus. Wanted me to arrange a stakeout or something, to try and catch him in the act."

Mycroft gave a little half smile and nod, remembering a very similar scenario with Sherlock as a child.

"I don't know if that's what he wants to talk to you about, but despite what you and Sherlock may want, I know how John feels about this kind of thing. And I'd ask you to respect his wishes. Understand what I'm saying?" Greg said firmly.

Mycroft looked down as he clasped his hands in front of him,

"I believe I do, yes," Mycroft said shortly.

"So, does that mean you'll keep it secret, about Santa Claus?" Greg asked cautiously.

"I will do the best I can Gregory," Mycroft looked up with a softened gaze.

"Good, that's good. Thanks Mycroft," Greg said as looked at Mycroft for a moment longer and then headed towards the door.

Mycroft called out,

"Will you be at John's Christmas Eve party this evening?"

Greg stopped and glanced over his shoulder, before quietly saying,

"Yes, I will."

"Good, perhaps we can talk over a few things then?"

Greg turned around a bit more and gazed upon Mycroft, his face had a bit of hope pressed in.

"I thought you didn't do holidays?" Greg asked with a smirk.

"Yes, well, there seems to be a number of things I have been changing my position on lately. Besides, I can't wait to see the look of surprise on my dear brother's face, "Mycroft said with a light laugh, which made Gregory smile.

"That'll be good...then I'll see you later?"

"I look forward to it," Mycroft said with a smile.

Greg nodded and walked out just as Mycroft's secretary came back in with a steaming cup of hot chocolate. He reached out and took it from her and muttered his thanks.

He paused at his office door, slowly turned the knob and carefully pushed in. He heard a muffled 'ooof' and shuffling of feet, as Hamish tried to retreat from his ease dropping position at the door as quickly as possible.

Mycroft walked over to the chair where his nephew was settling himself back down into the seat, placed the hot chocolate down on the side table, and went to sit behind his desk. He gave a quick look back at his small nephew and decided to sit in the chair just next to him.

He sat down and folded his hands onto his lap, and turned his head towards his office door,

"This room is soundproof, that's why you couldn't hear Greg and I speaking .Also, there is a small light just above the door way," Mycroft pointed, "that illuminates when the door is not latched properly."

Hamish looked back at the door and then at his uncle, and his face started to burn with the embarrassment of being caught.

"Hamish, what did you want to discuss with me?" Mycroft lowered a serious gaze at his nephew.

Hamish swallowed hard. Perhaps this was not the best idea. Papa had told him that Uncle Mycroft was not as scary as he seemed at which father had reminded papa that Uncle Mycroft was the most dangerous man in the world.

Hamish took a deep breath and soldiered on.

"You know about Santa Claus, right?"

Uncle Mycroft nodded affirmatively.

"Uncle Greg said that the government is well aware of the activities of Santa Claus and permits him to enter citizens' homes in order to leave presents behind. Is that true Uncle Mycroft?" Hamish caught his breath after all those words had tumbled out quickly.

"That...could certainly be within the purview of the government," Mycroft responded hesitantly.

"Is that a yes or a no?" Hamish asked insistently.

Mycroft plucked at the crease in his trousers, and responded,

"Hamish, you must understand, what you are asking me is classified information that I am not at liberty to discuss. I can neither confirm nor deny any information related to Mr. Claus."

Hamish gazed at Uncle Mycroft very carefully. The man had the information Hamish wanted, all he had to do was extract it. Maybe there was something here in the office. If only he could get some time alone, to take a look around. He needed a distraction.

Mycroft watched as the boy came to a decision, quickly came to a decision of his own, and pulled out his mobile. He pulled up the NORAD Santa Tracker page, and zoomed in on the countdown clock just in the lower right hand corner, so the cartoon graphics were not in view. What remained was a very real looking graphic, with the heading 'Santa Tracker Countdown', counting down to the second when Santa would start his journey. Should be sufficient for a four year old, even of Hamish's intelligence.

Just as Hamish theatrically dropped his hot chocolate onto the floor, Mycroft quickly set his mobile on the table between them and called out,

"Careful Hamish, let me go get some help," stood and walked over to the door, opened it and stuck his head out to ask his secretary for some help. He turned around just in time to see Hamish staring wide-eyed down at his mobile screen.

A countdown to tracking Santa? So, the government is tracking the man! Then he is certain to be at 221B Baker St. at some point this evening!

Mycroft's secretary bustled in with napkins, dabbed at the floor and table a bit, then told Mycroft that a cleaning crew would be in shortly. Mycroft nodded, gave a dismissive wave and turned his attention back to his nephew.

Mycroft could see the gears turning in the young man's mind. Hamish reminded Mycroft of Sherlock so much, strikingly so. Hamish was a twin to Sherlock at that same age, his mind just as sharp and advanced as Sherlock's was. But Hamish was much more comfortable with himself and had an ease with talking to people. He gave hugs and carefree smiles, a clear reflection of John's influence. Hamish had an empathy and concern for other people's feelings that Sherlock struggled with, even to this day.

Hamish knew he would have to plan a very good trap for Santa. He would need time to prepare the flat. Time to head home. Hamish glanced up at his Uncle Mycroft and said,

"I'm sorry I spilled on the floor," in Hamish's best apologetic voice. He meant it for the most part, he disliked making a mess of the carpet and certainly didn't like wasting hot chocolate.

Mycroft smiled and said,

"Oh, no bother Hamish. Now what were we talking about?" Mycroft pretended to forget.

"Just talking about Santa. But it's not important, don't worry about it," Hamish said as dismissively as possible.

"Well, fine then," Mycroft said with a thin smile, "Perhaps we should finish your shopping, don't you still have to buy a gift for your father and papa?"

Hamish gave his uncle Mycroft a very confused look,

"How did you know that Uncle Mycroft?"

Mycroft tapped his temple with his finger and said,

"I observed it," as he stood and made for his coat.

Hamish stood as well and tried to get his own coat on, but got stuck a bit in the sleeves. Uncle Mycroft already had a hand out to help, and together they started to get Hamish bundled back up for the cold outside. Mycroft knelt down to help get Hamish's mittens back on as he said,

"Hamish, did I ever tell you the story about your father, our stables, and the horses?"

Hamish shook his head, Mycroft stood and continued speaking,

"It's a wonderful example of making observations and deductions,"

Mycroft grasped Hamish's hand and they walked through the door into the outer office,

"Your father was seven years old he had just learned to ride a new stallion. He awoke one morning and headed out to the stables. The doors were all locked, from the inside, but he heard no sound of horses. So what do you think he did?"

Hamish shook his head, intrigued and asked, "I dunno, what did he do?"

"Well, let me tell you..." Mycroft started to say as he walked out of the office, hand in hand with his nephew.


	5. Chapter 5

*NOTE: Yeah, I meant to finish before Christmas. But Christmas happened and just didn't get it done. I changed the timeline a bit too, but not significantly. Thanks for reading!

As the car stopped in front of 221B, Mycroft slowly dropped his shoulder and pulled Hamish into the crook of his arm. The driver hopped out and opened the door, which allowed Mycroft to carefully scoop boy into his arms and ease him out of the car. As Mycroft adjusted Hamish's weight, he could hear the boy's lips smacking as he muttered something about a bunny, which made Mycroft smile, knowing what 'bunny' was euphemistic for in the Watson-Holmes household.

Mycroft slowly made his way to the front door of 221B and pressed the bell. He could hear John's footfalls on the stairs and a moment later the door was pulled open. John had clearly made good use of his day, his clothes were grimy from cleaning and he had a dish towel flung over his shoulder. He looked slightly surprised to see Mycroft.

"Oh, um...Hello Mycroft. I was getting a little worried, I had expected you a while ago," John said in a quiet voice, with an amused smile. It was surprisingly adorable to see Hamish curled up in his Uncle Mycroft's arms.

"My apologies John, we took longer at the shops then expected," Mycroft whispered, and then turned towards his assistant who had bags of wrapped presents.

"Do you mind carrying these upstairs?" Mycroft asked.

John raised his eyebrows in surprise at the presents as he reached for the bags,

"No, not at all," he muttered and once he had them he gave the assistant a nod.

John and Mycroft made their way up the stairs. On the landing Mycroft gestured up towards Hamish's bedroom, and John gave him a nod as he reached out and helped Mycroft peal off Hamish's shoes, hat, coat, mittens and scarf.

Mycroft ascended the stairs and crept into the boy's bedroom. He cautiously weaved his feet through the toys and books on the floor. Then hearing a crunch under foot, he felt a stab through his the sole of his shoe as he had apparently found a few pieces of Lego.

As he reached the bed, he pulled back the covers and set Hamish down. Mycroft pulled the covers back up as he brushed the fringe of curls away from Hamish's forehead and gazed over the sleeping child's face. So peaceful. He gave him a small kiss on top of his head and went downstairs.

He walked into the kitchen and into a cornucopia of savory smells and said to John,

"That smells delightful."

John smiled as he took out a pan from the oven,

"My mother's recipe for fruit cake. I hadn't tried it before." And he carefully set it down on the table, as he continued, "I'm so glad he's down for a nap, it'll make him so much easier to deal with tonight at the party."

"Sherlock returned from the market yet?" Mycroft asked with a knowing smirk. They had seen his brother Sherlock following them around the market.

John gave a huff of laughter. "I take it you spotted him."

"Actually Hamish did. I wondered if he was following us because he doesn't trust me with Hamish or just honing Hamish's skill to spot a tail." Mycroft said, looking around the kitchen.

"Either...or both," John shrugged his shoulders and placed a casserole into the oven. "Sherlock worked on those cold cases and then flew out of the house after you texted you were taking Hamish to market."

"You look like you're making enough food for a small arm," Mycroft said as he glanced over the counters and table tops that were covered with food.

"Just 10 people or so." John followed Mycroft's eyes around the kitchen. "Well, maybe I went overboard a little."

Mycroft hummed a response and then asked, "Anything I can help with?"

John gave his brother-in-law a suspicious look, and then said, "Well, do you know how to frost a cake?"

Mycroft gave a smirk and replied, "Indeed I do."

* * *

Sherlock came running up the stairs, he arms loaded with bags of wrapped presents. As he crossed the landing into the kitchen, he called out,

"I was unable to find a deerstalker in Hamish's size at the - " and Sherlock came to abrupt stop as he saw his brother standing in the kitchen, wearing Mrs. Hudson's old apron, without his jacket, shirt sleeves rolled up, and his hands covered in cake frosting.

Mycroft paused his hands and stilled his body as his little brother took in the scene. Mycroft tried to give his best welcoming smile in return, which only made Sherlock smirk.

Sherlock started walking back towards his bedroom as he said, "Of course you're welcome to stay for Christmas Eve, dear brother."

As Sherlock stepped in, he saw John napping on the bed. The man had clearly been hard at work all day, trying his best to make the flat presentable for the evening's gathering. He tried to be as quiet as possible, but John has always been a light sleeper.

"Any luck?" John said is a croaky sleepy voice.

Sherlock grinned and pulled a small stuffed rabbit from the inside of his coat.

"I found the bunny," Sherlock said as he sat down on the bed and wriggled the bunny playfully in John's face, before leaning down for a kiss.

John savored the kiss for a moment before asking,

"Did you find a deerstalker?"

Sherlock just shook his head.

"No, I was most unsuccessful in that regard, but I do have my homeless network out looking."

John sat up and gave a huff of laughter, "Of course you do."

Sherlock leaned in and wrapped his arms around John, kissing him with more intent.

And while that felt so nice and tempting, John gave Sherlock a subtle push and nod towards the hallway,

"Your brother is here, Sherlock."

Sherlock leaned back to give John a disappointed, admonishing look,

"And whose fault is that John?"

"He came to our door bearing gifts and Hamish bundled in his arms. Did you want me to say, 'Ta, thanks so much', and then close the door in his face?"

Sherlock just rolled his eyes.

"Besides, he's a fair cake decorator and we got far enough ahead that I could take a little nap," John said as he rolled over and put his feet on the floor.

John listened to the sounds of the flat before asking Sherlock,

"Was Hamish up when you came in?"

Sherlock shook his head, "No...he wants us to think he's still napping while he's up there preparing for battle with Santa Claus."

John chuckled and muttered,

"Your child, definitely your child," as he stood and headed back to the kitchen.

* * *

Hamish was half under his bed, searching for a box. Well, searching for THE box, his secret stash of detecting tools that papa and father did not know about. Hamish had spent considerable time and resources creating this box, and now all his efforts were coming to fruition. His fingers finally touched it, and he quickly pulled at it and came out from under the bed.

It was the box his trainers had come in, which Hamish had labeled with black marker, in large block letters 'SPORE SAMPLES'. He checked the hairs he had placed beneath the tape that held the box closed. Apparently undisturbed, he slowly pulled the tape off while maintaining pressure on the lid. He carefully eased pressure off until he heard...

POP

as the small jack-in-the-box he had wired to trigger went off. One can never be too careful in this house.

Hamish took off the lid and removed the jack-in-the-box, setting it aside. He started to take inventory.

* One of father's old hand held magnifying glasses  
* Jar of fingerprint dust Hamish had made from crushing graphite from mechanical pencils  
* Set of small mirrors, made from a discarded mirror of Mrs. Hudson's that Hamish had broken into pieces and wrapped the edges with duct tape  
* Several spools of fishing wire, acquired from papa's last fishing trip with Uncle Greg  
* Old tweezers, makeup brush and cotton swabs, donated by Mrs. Hudson  
* Evidence bags that Hamish had convinced Uncle Greg he needed for an experiment  
* Rubber gloves Hamish had found under the kitchen sink  
* An old baby monitor that Hamish could use as a surveillance device

Hamish held the baby monitor in his hands, and thought it would be best to test out this piece of electronics before he had to rely on it during this evening's stakeout.

He quickly packed everything back into his box, except the baby monitor's transmitter and receiver, and slid the box back underneath his bed. He tucked the transmitter underneath his jumper. Hamish looked at himself in the mirror, the bulky jumper covered up pretty well, wiped off the dusty evidence from knees and then headed down the stairs.

As he crept down the stairs he heard papa's laughter float through the flat as well as father's deep chuckle. He glanced into the kitchen to see a sour look on Uncle Mycroft's face, who apparently was the subject of the joke. Hamish tiptoed into the sitting room just as papa turned his head and called out,

"Hey Hamish. Have a nice nap?"

Hamish spun around a bit, and crossed his arms over his chest to cover the monitor beneath his jumper, and shifted foot to foot uncomfortably.

"Oh yes, ver-very good nap papa. Most...refreshing," Hamish muttered quickly, as he worried his bottom lip.

The awkward words hung in the air as papa, father, and Uncle Mycroft stared at Hamish, who desperately tried to appear nonchalant.

Sherlock gave a knowing smirk and asked,

"And how was shopping with Uncle Mycroft...tedious I imagine."

John gave Sherlock a stern look and said a warning ladened

"Sherlock," before stepping towards the sink to do the dishes.

Sherlock just gave John a dismissive wave. He glanced at Hamish, and then flicked his eyes towards Mycroft, who gave a slight nod before coming around the table, to turn his back to Hamish, and resumed frosting the cake. Sherlock reached over to pick up the newspaper, which he pulled up to cover his line of sight to his son.

Hamish gave a very satisfied smile, with their attentions drawn elsewhere, he eased his way behind the telly, quickly plugged in the baby monitor, covered it with a book, and then scampered away, calling out,

"I'm gonna clean my room up for the party..." as he stomped up the stairs, into his room, and quickly turned on the monitor's receiving end as he settled down onto his bedroom floor to listen in.

John turned off the running water and asked,

"Did Hamish just say he was going to clean his room?"

Sherlock chuckled, "Yes he did."

"We should check if he's coming down with fever," John muttered as he dried another dish.

Mycroft gave a nod into the sitting room, took a few steps back and glanced behind the telly at the four year old's handy work. He stepped back into the kitchen and gave a point to his ears.

Sherlock snapped his newspaper loudly to get John's attention, who turned with a questioning look on his face. Mycroft repeated the gesture, pointing at his ears and then pointing up towards Hamish's room.

John gave an acknowledging nod and smile, before he asked in a loud voice,

"Mycroft, what did Hamish want to talk to you about today?"

Mycroft shifted a bit and darted a glance at his brother.

"Well, he had made an inquiry into Mr. Claus's activities this evening. I assured him it was a matter that we had well in hand, aside which was of national security and therefore top secret." Mycroft said to John with a wink.

John's heart warmed as he realized Mycroft was going to play along with the ruse of Santa Claus. When Greg had called to tell him he had left Hamish with Mycroft, John had a hope but wasn't sure what the man would do.

Sherlock's face was smug. Mycroft had made similar assertions when Sherlock was a child. The man did enjoy a good lie.

John smiled at Mycroft and said loudly, "Thanks for...explaining that to Hamish, hopefully that will put some of his questions to rest."

Sherlock snapped his papers again.

"Yes, we can all hope that will put a stop to Hamish's investigations. But I shall not stop my investigation," Sherlock said with more seriousness then his face relayed.

Mycroft folded his arms and held in his laughter while John stammered a bit before asking,

"Wh-what are you talking about Sherlock?"

"I completely agree with you John. We need to stop Hamish from looking into this. Mr. Claus is a dangerous man, and though his activities have apparently been sanctioned by the government, I believe he should be exposed for what he really is. A criminal with a larger reach than Moriarity ever had."

Sherlock stood dramatically, scrapping his chair loudly as he stepped into the sitting room, retrieved the box of cold cases Greg had brought that morning, which he set down with a thud onto the table.

"Lestrade's been good enough to provide me with all the cold cases from Christmas Eve break-ins, where nothing was taken. Over the past twenty years, I found dozens with the same pattern and methods. I now know enough about this man...this Santa Claus...that will make catching him tonight quite easy."

Sherlock's words hung heavily in the air. He looked upon John's face that was frozen with shock and then over to Mycroft's amused look, just as a loud clunk came from Hamish's room, which made Sherlock smirk and glance up.

Hamish had dropped the receiver onto the floor as he gasped and then quickly placed his hand over his mouth. He tried very hard, to get his breathing and adrenaline under control.

Father. Father was on the case? Hamish tried to wrap his mind around what he had just heard. If father was investigating Santa Claus, this much be more serious than Hamish had first thought. And father...he sounded intent on catching the man and putting him in jail! Guilt twisted in Hamish's stomach. This was all his fault. He drew father's attention to Santa. Hamish had to get his hands on those cold case files. He had to find a way to warn Santa..


	6. Chapter 6

**Note: I don't know what's wrong with me. This chapter is 3 times longer than I intended. thanks for reading!

After Sherlock's very convincing and dramatic display, John had quickly stepped into the sitting room and unplugged the monitor behind the telly. He came back into the kitchen and spoke in a hushed, serious tone,

"Sherlock, it's one thing to tell stories to Hamish about Santa. It's quite another to fabricate evidence!"

Sherlock started a quick retort, but turned his head at the sound of the front door opening and closing, and Greg's footfalls on the stairs.

"'ello! Anyone home?" Greg called out as he crossed the landing into the sitting room. He set down his shopping bags from the market that were filled with presents, then turned towards the kitchen,

"John, do you have any wrapping paper? I need to - " and he stopped cold as he came into view of the kitchen table.

John was staring down with both fists pressed into the table top. Sherlock had a fairly frustrated expression on his face and Mycroft had an amused look that slowly turned to pleased as he smiled at Greg.

Greg smoothed his palms on the front of his denims and slid out of his coat.

"What did you do?" he asked as he stared at Sherlock and tossed his coat behind him onto John chair.

"I simply strengthened the evidence - " Sherlock started before John interrupted.

"He altered those burglary cold cases and made them look like they were crimes committed by Santa Claus!" John said as he slid the box of case files closer to him.

"Tell me I'm wrong?" John said as he stared at Sherlock.

Sherlock looked down at the table and picked at the edge of a pie crust, before mumbling,

"You're not entirely incorrect."

John pulled out a few files from the top of the box and started to glance through as Greg quickly walked over to stand behind John as he hissed at Sherlock,

"You altered case files! You can't do that Sherlock, those are official - "

"I made copies, of course," Sherlock said with an exhaustive sigh, "I have the originals. It was easier then completely fabricating everything. I certainly could have created files on my own, it was just faster this way," Sherlock said quietly as he tried to avoid John's eyes.

Greg pushed in a bit more and John stepped aside to give him a better look at the file open on top. While he had not worked any of these burglary cases, he had glanced through the files before giving them to Sherlock.

Greg took note of the changes that Sherlock had made. The file was thinner and easier to look through. There were many more crime scene photographs and drawings then there were before and details added in to some of the witness statements. As he flipped through a few more files, Greg noticed that Sherlock had made similar changes to all of them, and that those changes tied the whole picture of Santa Claus together.

"Sherlock...," Greg started and stopped as he thought of what to say. "What were you thinking? If you show this to Hamish, he'll be absolutely convinced the man is real. It'll make it that much harder to tell him the truth."

"I only did what John wanted!" Sherlock said loudly, at which John waved his hands and sharply pointed up to Hamish's room.

Sherlock pursed his lips together, and then said in a whisper as he stared at John,

"Last night, after you put Hamish to bed, you were practically giddy at the thought that Hamish believed in Santa. You told me how important it was to you. I knew Hamish would continue to investigate until he found the truth. Without any hard evidence, he could never be convinced."

John looked up and let his eyes soften as he looked at Sherlock. As misguided as he was, Sherlock at his heart was trying the best he could to understand what John wanted and it was hard for John to explain.

"Sherlock...I wanted Hamish to enjoy being in the fantasy, to let his imagination take him away. I want him to believe in the good in people, the spirit of giving that Santa represents. He's only going to be a little boy once Sherlock. I just..." John worried him upper lip, "For me, Santa made Christmas magical. Even when I found out the truth, it made me appreciate how hard my parents worked to make Christmas special, even when we didn't have much money for presents."

John looked over Sherlock's confused expression and then glanced to Mycroft, who was just as confused as Sherlock, and it made John's heart ache a bit for them both. John shifted closer to Sherlock and patted him on the arm,

"Look, I'm going to go up and check on him. Make sure he's alright after hearing that his father is going to catch and lock up Santa."

As John made his way across the landing and up the stairs, he heard Greg ask in a hushed tone what had happened and Mycroft beginnings of an explanation.

As the voices downstairs faded away, John approached Hamish's door. He hovered as he listened and could make out the sound of a few sniffles. John quietly knocked and Hamish replied in a small, hoarse voice,

"Come in papa."

John eased open the door and closed it behind him. As it was early evening, the room was dark without any lights on. The ceiling glowed softly from the glow-in-the-dark stickers of the solar system and there was a jar on Hamish's desk of the fungus foxfire that glowed as well. Moonlight cast a sliver of light across Hamish's bed, and John could see Hamish curled up under the covers, his face turned away.

John carefully stepped over the clutter and sat on the bed, placed his hand onto Hamish's shoulder, and gave him a bit of a push until Hamish laid on his back. But the boy kept his right arm slung over his face, too embarrassed to let his papa see his tears.

After Hamish had heard father declare his intentions to capture Santa, Hamish was overwhelmed with guilt and fear, and the terrible weight of the fact that he had just ruined Christmas for all of the other children in the entire world. As he sat on the floor and turned off the baby monitor, he had felt a tear slide down his cheek, which was soon followed by many more, until there was an uncontrollable number and Hamish flung himself into his bed to cry.

While he cried and laid in bed, he tried to think of a plan to fix things, but he ended up focused on all the terrible things that were going to happen.

He imagined children waking up Christmas morning, with no presents. Confused parents, wondering what awful thing their children had done to be ignored by Santa. He thought of the little girl from the Christmas market, not receiving her wooden horse. He thought of Mrs. Claus waiting for Mr. Claus to come home and then the shock she'd receive when he would call for her to come to London to bail him out of jail.

Hamish thought of the newspapers printing stories of how the great Sherlock Holmes had finally caught the criminal, and then everyone would know that it was his family that had ruined Christmas.

Hamish pulled in a deep breath as he peeked up at papa and thought about telling him everything. Surely papa could convince father not to arrest Santa. Hamish bit his bottom lip as he slowly lowered his arm, sat up a little to look at papa.

John saw the pain in his son's eyes as he slid his palm to his son's face and used his thumb to brush away a tear.

"Want to talk about it?"

Hamish just shrugged his shoulders, his bottom lip quivered as he held back his tears, and he slowly asked,

"Papa, do you think I've been a good boy?"

John let out a little gasp,

"Of course Hamish, you're such a good boy. I'm so proud of what a wonderful little boy you are." John moved to hug his son, but Hamish placed his hand on his arm to stop him.

"So you think for sure that Santa Claus will come here? Come to Baker Street tonight?"

John paused and hesitated, thinking this would be the time to tell Hamish the truth. He looked at his son's tear stained face, runny nose, and worried eyes. He couldn't decide which would be worse, continuing the story or telling him the truth.

John considered for a moment before he croaked out,

"Yes, Hamish, I think he'll come tonight."

This renewed Hamish's tears, and he reached out for his papa for comfort. John wrapped his arms around his small son, kissed the top of his head, and tried to calm him down.

Hamish buried his face into the crook of papa's shoulder and then stammered,

"Wh-what if I did som-something very naughty right now, like br-break one of father's microscopes or kicked Uncle My-Mycroft? Do you think that would ke-keep Santa Claus away?"

John pulled his son closer as he said,

"Shhh, Hamish. Don't worry about Santa, Okay? Don't think about it."

The jar of foxfire and it's green glow caught John's eye, and it reminded him of an emerald. A story popped into John's head. He pulled his son tight in his arms and said,

"Hamish, did I ever tell you about the case with the son, his father and an emerald?"

John felt his son shake his head and heard the sniffles slow down.

"The father and son came to Baker St, to ask Sherlock and I to find a very large emerald that had been stolen. We listened to the father as he ranted on about the importance of the emerald, that it was a tradition from his country, how it was promised to a woman that the father had arranged for the son to marry. Without the emerald, there would be no wedding. While the father spoke, Sherlock gazed at the son and deduced the whole story. Sherlock told the father that he would take the case, only if the son stayed to assist him. The father agreed, leaving the son behind."

Hamish sat up a bit and wiped the tears from his face, looked at his papa, and nodded for him to continue.

"Sherlock asked the son where the emerald was and the son tried to lie, but no one can lie to Sherlock. The son admitted he had taken it to avoid the arranged marriage, as he was in love and had already secretly wed another woman. He begged Sherlock not to tell his father, asked him to wait for a week, as he got his affairs in order and could leave the country with his wife. The son pulled out the emerald from his pocket and told Sherlock he could have it as payment for his silence. Sherlock reached out, snatched the emerald away and he spoke so coldly to the son. He told the son that it was his job was to find the emerald and return it. He intended to do so. The son stared broken hearted at Sherlock. Sherlock turned his back and leaned against the mantle, and then told the son,

_I have important business in Berlin, which will certainly take me out of the country for the next...10 days. I shall return the emerald to your father then_.

The son stared at the back of Sherlock, stared at me, then ran out of the flat."

Hamish asked quietly, "Di-did the father put the son in jail for stealing it, did he ever catch him?"

John smiled, "They did eventually find the son and the father was so relieved to see the son again that he didn't do anything."

Hamish whispered, "I can't believe father just let the son go, even though he was a thief."

"Your father is full of surprises," John pulled his son close, gave him a kiss on the head, and said,

"Come on now, get cleaned up and come downstairs. We need to finish decorating the tree before the party starts."

John stood and walked away from the bed, pausing at the doorway to look back at his son. He could see Hamish thinking, trying to solve the problem. He saw the hope creep back into Hamish's face, and John thought everything may work out. It was a bit like being on a roller coaster, raising a child with Sherlock. John was just going to hold on and believe that everything was going to be alright.

John smiled as he backed out of the room and pulled the door closed. As he turned to go down the stairs, he practically fell over Sherlock, who was sitting on the floor. John quickly stepped over Sherlock's legs, and walked down the stairs. Sherlock followed into the sitting room, where John had sat down in his chair. Sherlock settled down in his own chair.

"That was a very good story John. Although, if I recall, the son is still on the run from his father," Sherlock said as he folded his hands in his lap, crossed his legs and leveled his eyes at John.

John stared at Sherlock, and said, "I didn't want to upset him more."

"So another lie," Sherlock said shortly. "That's how we got ourselves into this mess John, by telling Hamish lies."

"Sherlock, that's not fair, I'm only trying - " John started but stopped as Greg came in and placed a soothing hand on his shoulder.

"Boys, please. We should talk about this later," Greg looked from John then to Sherlock, receiving silence in response, he asked John,

"Have any wrapping paper? I need to finish a few presents."

John stood up quickly, "I'll go get some," and walked back towards his bedroom.

Sherlock stood as well and said, "I must speak to Mrs. Hudson," and headed down the stairs.

Greg rummaged in his shopping bags for the bag that held his presents to John and Sherlock. He held it tightly closed as he headed back into the kitchen. John returned with paper, scissors, and tape. He set them down without a word and went into the sitting room. Greg and Mycroft watched as John started to straighten the small Christmas tree that stood in front of the window.

Greg pulled out his gifts; a nice bottle of whiskey for John and an antique cigarette case, filled with cigarettes. Mycroft smirked at the sight,

"You and I both know he'll never quit entirely," Greg said softly.

"Yes, I do believe that may be what he is doing right now," Mycroft responded at which Greg gave a little laugh.

As Greg wrapped his presents, he kept glancing up at Mycroft, who was watching Greg intently. They had said they would talk. After he had left Mycroft's office earlier that day, Greg had thought of everything he wanted to say. And now as he worked in silence, he thought through all the carefully constructed phrases he had planned to say, until he finally just blurted out.

"I'm sorry."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows in a question,and Greg continued,

"I wanted to tell you, I'm sorry for...everything."

"I believe I have some part of this, it was I that - "

Greg interrupted Mycroft, "Yes, but I overreacted. I never should have...left...the way I did. I didn't know how to answer you, and I needed time."

Mycroft nodded. He looked down at the kitchen table for a moment and then looked back up at Greg as he said,

"I haven't changed my mind about my request. But I understand if you find it...challenging to answer me now or any time in the near future."

Greg glanced up and gave a small smile as he said,

"I may be able to answer you someday," then turned his attention back to his wrapping.

Mycroft reached out and rested his hand upon Greg's. His eyes focused on Greg's fingers as they became still, and then turned up to interlace together with Mycroft's fingers. Mycroft gave a small squeeze before asking very softly,

"Then, can you at least come back home now?"

Greg let his eyes fall close and breathed in. He opened his eyes, and said,

"If you'll have me," Greg said softly, at which Mycroft gave a slight nod. Greg broke out into a wide smile.

"Good, because I don't think I can spend another night on my sister's couch."

Mycroft stood and came around to where Greg stood. He hesitantly approached the man and pulled him into a hug. He felt the tension pour out of Greg's body as well as his own.

When Mycroft pulled away, he found Hamish was standing right next to them. He was staring up at them, looking quite confused as he flicked his eyes from his Uncle Mycroft to his Uncle Greg.

Greg beamed a smile down to his nephew as he said,

"Hey there Hamish," and then glanced back to Mycroft.

Hamish smiled back and then said, "It's good you've stopped fighting. Uncle Mycroft was a mess without you Uncle Greg."

Hamish wandered into the sitting room to find papa unboxing Christmas ornaments. Hamish reached down and pulled out the small pickle ornament.

"Can I hide the pickle this year?"

"Of course Hamish, find a good spot for it," John said as he gave his son a pat on the shoulder.

Hamish circled the tree, and thought about hiding it in the back, or perhaps behind a large branch. There was a cluster of ornaments that papa had already hung, and Hamish looked for a hiding spot there. In the end, Hamish simply hung it right in the front, where all could see.

Papa raised a questioning eyebrow at which Hamish whispered,

"Hiding it in plain sight."

John gave his son a wink and a nod and continued to decorate the tree. He took out a small set of silver baby booties and cradled them. They were Hamish's first shoes that Sherlock had dipped in silver.

Hamish watched his papa's eyes turn wistful as he hung the shoes up on the tree. Hamish reached in the box for a set of feathers that father had gathered during a case as well as a small horseshoe. Each year father, papa, and Hamish gave each other Christmas ornaments, and the tree had fewer generic ornaments than ornaments with some story behind it. It was one of Hamish's favorite parts of Christmas in his house.

Sherlock made his way up the stairs slowly, as he cradled a punch bowl in his arms,

"I've got the egg nog from Mrs. Hudson."

John glanced over his shoulder and said, "Just place it in here on the table by the window."

Sherlock eased his way into the sitting room and set it down next to a stack of punch bowl glasses. He stepped over to John and Hamish, hovered between them to look at the ornaments on the tree.

Hamish and John simultaneously took a sniff, to detect whether Sherlock had snuck a cigarette or not. They both scrunched their noses while turning to give Sherlock an admonishing look. Sherlock slid his hands into pockets and murmured,

"Well, it is Christmas," and then walked back into the kitchen.

* * *

Hamish gazed out to the street below. It looked cold and windy, perhaps a storm coming in. He listened to the crackle of the fire and the lively discussions of all the people in the house for the party, as Christmas music played quietly in the background. Father's friend Molly, her husband and little baby sat on the sofa while speaking to Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Turner. Uncle Mycroft and Uncle Greg had barely left the kitchen, talking soft words and shared smiles. There was a couple from papa's work that looked absolutely petrified as father rambled on about some experiment he had running at Bart's.

Hamish's head turned as papa's laughter floated over everything. Papa sat on the arm of his chair next to his Aunt Clara who both were rolling with laughter. Aunt Harry sat in father's chair looking rather cross.

"That's not fair, it's not easy you know. Especially in my condition," Aunt Harry said, the last words trailing off as she stared longingly at the glass of beer that papa was sipping from. Father had told Hamish that Aunt Harry was an alcoholic, but Hamish has never seen her drink.

Papa reached out his hand and helped his sister up,

"You're a bastard to laugh at me, after all...this," Aunt Harry gestured playfully between herself and Aunt Clara, "This is all your fault."

John smiled and gave his sister a light hug as they walked into the kitchen. Aunt Clara caught Hamish's eye and she waved him over. Hamish sat down into father's chair and smiled. Aunt Clara took a sip of wine and smiled at Hamish.

"So, Hamish. Had any interesting cases lately?"

Hamish spent the night from time to time with Aunt Clara and Aunt Harry, if papa and father were out on a case. Hamish had told Aunt Clara of the few cases he had worked on, and she always asked about cases whenever she saw Hamish.

Hamish wanted to tell her about the very important case of Santa Claus he was working on, but decided to tell her about his case from last week.

"Mr. Chatterjee had the lock on his cafe broken, but nothing was taken. He asked for my help, and it was obvious that it was his teenage niece he just hired, who had lost her keys but was too embarassed to tell him."

Aunt Clara beamed a smile and said, "How clever of you, he must have been relieved it wasn't a criminal."

"Yes, he was quite pleased and he paid me in hot chocolate."

Aunt Clara gave a chuckle just as Papa came back in, with Aunt Harry trailing behind. Papa spoke loudly,

"Everyone, if we can, we'd like Hamish to open one of his presents now," and waved Hamish over to him.

Father moved away from the couple of doctors by the window and came to stand by papa as well. Hamish glanced from his Father and Papa, and around the room. They were all staring and Hamish was terribly confused. He slid to the side to sit down on the coffee table.

Aunt Harry squeezed by and sat back down in father's chair. Uncle Greg and Uncle Mycroft came into the sitting room, over to the fireplace and leaned against the mantle.

John took a deep breath as Sherlock handed him a wrapped present. John played with the edges of the paper as he looked at Hamish. He was really worried about how his son would take the news. He handed the present to Hamish, who very cautiously opened it as he looked warily around the room at everyone watching him.

As he pulled the paper away, he saw it was a stuffed bunny. Hamish groaned on the inside. He knew this was coming, but hadn't thought his parents were going to make such a big deal about it.

"It's a bunny, you actually got me a stuffed bunny..." Hamish murmured.

John pulled in another deep breath and started to explain,

"Hamish, I know you have heard us talking about a bunny the last few months, and well.."

John glanced from Sherlock to Aunt Harry, to Aunt Clara

"We wanted to let you that we were just using the term bunny to mean - "

Hamish quickly interrupted,

"Yes, yes I know...Bunny always meant baby. Aunt Harry is pregnant again, having a baby for you and father," Hamish said with a sigh and shrugged his shoulders, looked down to the floor before muttering,

"Well, babies. Twins. That will be a handful."

There was a moment of stunned silence just before Papa let out a loud, surprised gasp and father whipped his head around to Aunt Harry, who was grinning mischievously.

Above the shocked expressions and congratulations being uttered in the room, Aunt Harry waved a finger at Hamish and said,

"You're too clever Hamish, that was meant to be a surprise," as she pulled out another stuffed bunny and tossed it to Hamish, who just rolled his eyes.

Uncle Greg recovered from the wonderful if not surprising news, glanced at Uncle Mycroft who did not look surprised at all, and then asked Hamish,

"You don't look happy Hamish, I thought you wanted a little brother."

"I do, but I'm not sure I want two little brothers," Hamish said sullenly as Uncle Mycroft walked over to sit next to him.

Uncle Mycroft gave him a nudge with his shoulder and said, "Could be worse Hamish. You could get two little sisters."

Hamish groaned loudly at the thought just as he looked up at his papa and father, who both still looked genuinely stunned at the idea of twins. Hamish had really wanted a sibling, and was being playful more than anything. Although the thought of two little sisters did give him pause.

Hamish stood and walked over to his parents. He tried to wrap his arms around both their legs to give a hug, and father bent down to scoop Hamish up. Hamish placed his arm behind father's neck and turned round to look at papa and gave him a pat on the shoulder.

"It's going to be alright papa. I'll help with the twins. I have always wanted a sibling, really I have. It's a very nice Christmas present, " Hamish leaned in a bit, "But if we can make sure they are boys that would be preferred."

John smiled up at Hamish being held in Sherlock's arms, and said

"I don't think I have much say in that one Hamish," and then leaned in to give his son and husband each a kiss on the cheek.

* * *

Hamish woke up to the sound of glasses clinking together, and saw through a half raised eyelid papa gathering up empty glasses off of the coffee table and walking into the kitchen. Hamish heard low voices coming from the kitchen, sounded like his uncles were washing up dishes. Hamish had remembered dozing off just as the last of the guests were leaving and Mrs. Hudson heading downstairs. The party seemed quite successful, especially after the baby announcement, everyone seemed just a bit more happy.

Hamish pressed his cheek into his father's shirt and turned his head up to look at father. Father was still staring at a grainy, black and white sonogram picture that had two little blobs of white on it.

"Father,"

Sherlock broke from his thoughts with a grunt, and then responded,

"Yes Hamish,"

"Do you think these babies will look more like papa or you?"

"Why do you ask that Hamish?"

Hamish sat up a little, rubbed his eyes while he said,

"Everyone says how much I look like you. I just wondered...maybe it might be good for the babies to look like papa."

"Well Hamish, while the babies will be half Watson and half Holmes, my dark hair and eyes will be the dominant traits. But Hamish...I think you look very much like papa," Sherlock looked down at his son with an unguarded loving gaze.

Hamish leaned back in surprise, "Really? I look like papa?"

Sherlock reached out a finger and poked the tip of Hamish's nose,

"You have his nose, the shape of your eyes is the same and you have his very stern chin and prominent ears," Sherlock said and then gave a glance to the sonogram again.

"You certainly have his bravery and heart," Sherlock said softly without looking at Hamish.

Hamish nuzzled back into his Father's side just as papa came in and said,

"Come on Hamish, time for bed."

Hamish flicked a pleading glance at father, who turned to John and said,

"I was hoping Hamish would help me wrap a few presents."

John glanced down at the pleading looks on both their faces and couldn't help but smile,

"Alright, but don't keep him up too late Sherlock. I have presents of my own to wrap, so don't come into the bedroom," John said as he turned to see Mycroft and Greg putting on their coats.

"Thanks for the help, see you both tomorrow afternoon?" John asked hopefully.

Greg quickly glanced from John to Mycroft and hesitantly said,

"Yes, I suppose I'll be going out to the house tomorrow, if that's ok..." Greg's words trailed off.

Mycroft quickly responded,

"Yes, I'm sure mother will be very excited to see us."

John smiled warmly at the both of them and gave Greg a slap on the back,

"Well, cheers, thanks for the whiskey mate. See you tomorrow."

Greg and Mycroft each bent down to give Hamish a hug, and then followed John into the hallway and headed down the stairs.

Sherlock glanced back down at Hamish and stood, then asked, "I'm going to make some tea. Do you want some tea or hot chocolate?"

Hamish's eyes twinkled a bit before he enthusiastically nodded and said, "Hot chocolate please."

Sherlock gave a glance, which he did his best to appear unconscious and subtle, to a box under the table as he headed into the kitchen.

Hamish had followed his father's gaze with great interest and waited until father was in the kitchen before he looked in the box. It was the box of cold case files. He quietly pulled the top one out and took a look at the set of crime scene photos that were piled on top. He quickly flipped through those and then read one of the witness statements. Curious.

He craned his head towards the kitchen, and heard father filling the kettle. He pulled out the second file, and stared at the photos as well, looked through the drawings and the witness statements. Interesting. By the time he heard father stirring the milk into his tea, Hamish had had a chance to look over the first six files, and he found a clear pattern of evidence. He felt a deep sense of relief wash over him. But he had to think of a way to confirm his suspicions. Hamish remembered he had hidden his gift to his parents down with Mrs. Hudson. _Perfect_.

Hamish stood and as he crossed the landing he called out, "I left my presents with Mrs. Hudson. I'll be right back."

He quickly stomped down the stairs and knocked on Mrs. Hudson's door.

Mrs. Hudson opened with a smile, recognizing the young boy's knock. She was just getting ready for bed but knew that Hamish would be down soon to get the lovely gift he had gotten for his parents while shopping with his Uncle Mycroft.

"Well, hello dear. Come to get your presents?"

Hamish hesitated,

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson. But first, I was wondering," Hamish paused and then asked sweetly,

"Can I look down in 221C?"

"Why in heavens would you want to do that Hamish?"

Hamish had no plausible explanation ready to give for a moment until he remembered a story papa had told him,

"I..ummm...had been reading papa's blog and it mentioned 221C, and I wanted to see if it looked like I imagined."

Hamish put on his sweetest smile, even clasped his hand in front of him, brought them up to his chin, and bounced up and down pleading with Mrs. Hudson.

"Please Mrs. Hudson? Please?"

Mrs. Hudson looked down at the boy with an expression ladened with uncertainty, which she shook off before saying,

"I don't suppose it would hurt. I'll have to come down there with you though, it'll be cold and damp and we can't stay long," she said as she reached behind her to grab the keys off of the key hooks.

She quickly slid the key into the lock and flipped on the lights that go down the staircase. She waved at Hamish to go down first.

Hamish had only been down to 221C once, to help papa bring some boxes down for storage. It certainly was cold, as no one lived down there. And dark, no lights turned on since Mrs. Hudson didn't need them. Hamish stared into the darkened room, with just enough light coming in from the stair case, he quickly saw what he was looking. He made his way around the boxes, towards the fireplace. He pulled the torch, which he always had on him, and flicked it on.

Hamish looked back at Mrs. Hudson and then crouched down. He shined his flashlight up into the chimney, and then a smile crept across his face. But then he thought of papa, and the smile faded away. Right...somehow...Hamish would have to sort this all out. The pieces were coming together, but something didn't fit.

He stood, pocketed his torch and turned round.

"Thanks Mrs. Hudson, that's all I needed. Mind if we go back, it's really cold down here," Hamish said with an exaggerated shiver.

Mrs. Hudson just shook her head and followed the boy back upstairs. She made her way back into her flat and came right back out with a wrapped box.

"I took the liberty of wrapping it for you dear," she said as she handed it to Hamish, and placed her arm around his shoulders. She pulled him in to a loose hug and gave him a kiss on his head.

"Merry Christmas my love, you better get to bed soon. Santa will be on his way and he doesn't like little boys to be out of their beds," Mrs. Hudson said with a smile.

Hamish gave Mrs. Hudson a nod and ran back up the stairs. He quickly slid his present under the tree, settled down into papa's chair and watched the fire burn. He started to sort his thoughts just as father set down a cup of hot chocolate.

Sherlock sat down in his chair and sipped his cup of tea. He took in every expression, every shift of Hamish's eyes. Sherlock cleared his throat and asked his son,

"So how did you deduce it?" Father said slowly with a deep, rumbling voice.

Hamish froze a moment, not exactly sure what father was referring to. He raised an eyebrow as he took a sip of his hot chocolate.

Sherlock leveled his stare at his son, letting Hamish's uncertainty push in a bit more, before he finally said,

"How did you know that bunny meant baby?"

Hamish let out the breath he had been holding, and with a relieved sigh he said,

"Well, choosing a code word that starts with the same letter as the real word is always a challenge. Papa continually started the word 'baby' but quickly would say 'bunny'. Also, he has been looking longingly at babies on the street and any of my old baby things."

Sherlock nodded his head in understanding.

"And how did you know about the twins? Even I had no idea," Sherlock asked with genuine admiration.

Hamish glowed with pride to have deduced something before his father!

"Last month, when I spent the night, I used Aunt Harry's computer and she had numerous searches in the browser history related to twins. She giggled with Aunt Clara behind my back, and instead of bunny, she started to say bunnies."

Sherlock smiled at his son.

"Very good Hamish," he said as he took another sip.

Hamish sipped his hot chocolate as well, and they sat in companionable silence, listening to the fire crackle and hiss. Hamish was nearly to the bottom of his cup when father said,

"Hamish, about Santa Claus..." Sherlock said quietly.

"Yes Father?" This should be interesting.

"I was planning to stay up tonight, perhaps for a bit of a stakeout. See if we can catch the man in the act, so to speak. Would you like to join me?" Sherlock asked cautiously.

Hamish quickly supplied the answer he had readied,

"Father...I don't think I should. According to legend, Santa Claus will not enter a home that has a child awake. If we have any hope of catching him, I must be fast asleep before he arrives. Don't you agree?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes into a curious gaze at his son and considered his son's very interesting answer.

Hamish gulped down the last of his hot chocolate, and avoided his father's gaze. He walked into the kitchen, climbed the stool, rinsed out his cup, and set it down in the sink. He came back into the sitting room to find his father in his thinking pose. Hamish hovered near his father's chair, before he leaned in to give him a hug goodnight.

"Goodnight father, happy hunting," Hamish said softly, "I'll go say goodnight to papa and then go to bed, ok?"

Sherlock grunted an affirmative response and simply watched Hamish walk away.

Hamish could feel his father's stare on his back, but stayed the course. He was certain he had made the correct deductions. He could not let doubt creep in now. Hamish eased his way down the hallway, and lightly knocked on the door to his parent's room. He heard papa toss around a few things before papa called out,

"Alright, you can come in now,"

Hamish opened the door and stepped in. It was unusually messy in his parent's room, covered with bags and wrapping paper, and the bed had a large blanket thrown over a bunch of lumps.

"I'm headed up to bed papa," Hamish said with his arms outstretched. Papa gave him a hug,

"Okay, go brush your teeth and I'll be up in a minute to tuck you in," John said as he released his son and watched him walk into the bathroom. John was about to pull the blanket back off the bed, when Sherlock stepped in the room, closed the door, and leaned against it.

John was about to speak but Sherlock raised his hand to tell him to wait. They listened to Hamish brush his teeth, use the toilet, leave the bathroom and then climb the stairs. Once they heard Hamish's bedroom door shut, Sherlock spoke in a whisper, but his deep voice still filled the room,

"He knows about Santa..."

John turned his head sideways, and asked,

"He knows what? That Santa's real... not real?"

"I...don't know. I just know that he knows...something now," Sherlock said as he raised his hands in his thinking pose and carefully considered the problem at hand.


	7. Chapter 7

NOTE: THANKS! For reading, for the patience. It's appreciated. Finally done, I hope you like it.

Hamish pressed his face into his pillow, trying to get away from the sound of the alarm clock on his bed side table. In truth, he had not been asleep long. He had tried to stay up the whole night, just to be certain, but after he saw dawn break, he decided it was probably safe enough to go to sleep for a short period.

He reached over and pressed the alarm to the off position. Not allowing exhaustion to diminish his enthusiasm for Christmas day, he flung his legs over the edge of his bed and dropped his feet down to the floor. He slipped his dressing gown over his pajamas as he scurried to the door. He paused at the threshold to gaze around his room for a final look. Satisfied all was as it should be, Hamish quickly clambered down the stairs and ran to his parents' door.

Hamish banged his fists against the door and started yelling,

"It's Christmas! Christmas morning! Papa! Papa!"

John cracked an eye towards the bedroom door where the sounds were coming from and then to the clock...7:03am. He groaned and called out,

"Come in Hamish!"

Hamish turned the door knob, bounced into the room and jumped onto to the bed, landing on his papa. Papa made a loud grunt as Hamish's knee found papa's tummy.

"Oof, Hamish, get off me!" John said with a rough laugh. "Go jump on your father, get him to wake up!"

Hamish hopped over to sit on top of his father's back. He leaned down to press his face against the side of his father's face, and bellowed out as loud as he could,

"Merry Christmas! Father! It's Christmas! Get Up!"

Hamish saw his father's eyes fly open, his head snap up as he playfully shoved Hamish to the side. Happy that apparently both his parents were awake, he jumped back down and ran from the room, calling out,

"I'll make tea!"

Sherlock's deep laugh rumbled through the bed as John was rubbing sleep from his eyes, and giggled,

"He's making tea Sherlock," and let out a pleasing sigh.

Sherlock laughed a bit more and then replied, "So I heard."

John rolled to his side and pressed an affectionate palm on Sherlock's rumpled face. He cast soft eyes over his husband and smiled, as he leaned in,

"Merry Christmas Sherlock," and gave a light kiss.

Just as John started to pull away, Sherlock slid his hand behind John's head and pulled him closer, kissed him a little more deeply, then leaned away,

"Merry Christmas John," Sherlock sighed with content as he let John go.

John smiled and said,

"Come on, let's get in there before he burns down the kitchen."

Hamish sat cross legged on the floor between his parents chairs. Papa came in and handed him a steaming cup of hot chocolate. Of all the hot chocolates he had had this holiday season, papa's was by far the best. He took great care not to overheat the milk and got the balance of chocolate precisely right. Hamish took a quick sip and smiled up at his papa.

John had dutifully drank Hamish's tea, which was as good as any four year old could make. But then quickly made more for himself and Sherlock. He handed Sherlock a cup and set his down on the table. He looked over his son and husband for a moment, as the warm morning sun beamed in from the windows through the Christmas tree and John tucked that wonderful image away in his mind.

"Alright, Presents! I'll hand them out...I do believe that was the agreement?" John said with a slight question in his voice.

Both Sherlock and Hamish nodded, and John walked over to the tree. Each year, Sherlock had made a game out of deducing a present John gave him. John would disguise the present as best he could, by wrapping it in multiple boxes or adding items to change the sound. This year was the first time Hamish was in on the game.

They had established simple rules. Hamish and Sherlock would each receive a present to deduce. John would handle the presents. Only one shake of the box was permitted and the deduction of the contents must be made in a timely fashion. Sherlock agreed to give Hamish a handicap by allowing John to write a clue on the gift tag.

John selected the first box for Sherlock, griped it firmly to avoid making any sound, and slid it on the table in front of Sherlock's chair.

Hamish watched with rapt attention as his father started his deductions. Father bent his head down to the level of the table, looked on all sides of the present that were visible while he gave the present a few sniffs. It was a small box, about the size of a coffee mug.

Father leaned back into his chair and gave a smug grin. He folded his hands on his lap, and smoothly said,

"I've got it."

Papa raised an eyebrow and asked,

"Not going to pick it up, look at the bottom? Maybe give it a shake?"

Sherlock shook his head. "It's cologne"

John folded his arms across chest and with a challenging eye asked,

"And why do you think that?"

"You've wrapped the cologne in a box that was used for Christmas three years ago. I recognize the shape. Shame on you for repeating yourself John," Sherlock said as John rolled his eyes.

"Three years ago, that box held my favorite soaps, I can still detect a residual smell. Thinking that would help mask the smell of cologne was smart on your part John."

John couldn't help but smile at the compliment.

"However, that's where you've made a mistake. While the soap and cologne have different names, they come from the same manufacturer. Since both products use similar base components for the fragrance, it only enhanced the smell of the gifted cologne, and therefore allowing me to detect that it is Serge Lutens' Borneo 1834. A very nice present John. Am I correct?"

John just looked to the heavens. Of course Sherlock was correct, and John gave a defeated wave as Sherlock quickly grabbed up the box and tore the wrapping open. As he popped open the box, a few glass marbles rolled out. John had hoped to convince Sherlock he had gotten him bath salts of the  
same type as the soap.

As Sherlock cradled the cologne bottle in his hand he looked up at John and said,

"This is too much John, you didn't have to get me something so expensive."

John just gave a smile and stepped over to Sherlock,

"I'm glad you like it," and bent down to give him a kiss.

John stood up and gave a clap of his hands,

"Alright Hamish, now you've seen the world's greatest consulting detective at work, are you ready to deduce your present?"

Hamish nodded enthusiastically. He watched papa reach under the tree, grab a very large box and slid it in front of him. Could be anything in that box. Hamish stood up and rested his chin on the palm of his hand. He walked around the box slowly, taking in the wrapping and gave the box a sniff. Only smelled like cardboard. He shifted an eye towards his father, who had schooled his features to be blank.

John bent down and lifted the box up as he said,

"Here, let me show you the bottom," and held it high over Hamish's head.

Hamish glanced over papa more than the box. The box must be partially filled with paper, if papa could handle it so easily. The bottom was similar to the rest and papa quickly set it back down. Hamish thought to give it a shake but remembered that he would get a clue on the gift tag. He looked at the top and read the gift tag. It said

**_To: Hamish Watson-Holmes_**

**_From: 713_**

Hamish turned his eyes back up to papa who was smiling widely. Then papa gave an unconscious glance over to father...or was it at father?

Hamish looked back down and grasped the box. It felt fairly heavy to Hamish, and he gave it a good shake, then set it back down.

He sat back down on the ground and thought. He had heard shifting of paper, a slide of plastic wrapping, and a good number of solid things bumping against each other, sounded like fifteen or sixteen items. Hamish guessed seven of the things were of similar size and then there were eight or nine things of similar size as well.

Hamish looked back at his papa, and then looked at father, at least what was just behind father...the bookcase. Then he looked down at the number713 again. Hamish turned his head up at papa and exclaimed,

"I've got it papa!"

Papa smiled widely and then raised a finger, wiggled it a bit and said,

"Come and whisper it in my ear."

Hamish gave papa a questioning look as he walked over, and raised up on his tip toes as papa leaned down. He whispered his answer, and John smiled excitedly,

"Well done Hamish, you're exactly right!"

Hamish beamed with pride and bounced over to open the present when papa stopped him by saying,

"Want to see if father can guess what's inside?"

Hamish hesitated. It's possible father could deduce it, but given the subject matter, father may have trouble.

Hamish tucked one arm behind him and gave an expansive wave with the other arm, inviting his father over.

Sherlock couldn't help suppress a chuckle at his young son's mannerisms. He unfolded himself from his chair with a smug grin, knowing he would make short work of this. He quickly glanced over the box, lifted it up and gave it a shake, then took a look at the tag.

He marched over to the bookcase, where John had not so subtly looked at and pulled a book off of the shelf.

_"The Essentials of Pathophysiology"_ and then glanced at Hamish...perhaps too advanced of a subject for a four year old, and placed the book back. Sherlock continued to look at the other books but was not able to decide on a subject matter suitable for a present for Hamish.

He stood in front of the box one more time, folded his arms and rested his chin in his hand. Clearly there were seven books and eight dvds in the box, but Sherlock did not know what the subject matter was and did not understand the significance of the number 713. He was drawing a blank.

John looked at Sherlock and decided enough was enough, and said,

"Any thoughts? Guesses?"

Sherlock gave a deadly stare at John as he slid his hands into the pockets of his robe and then shook his head.

"The present is books and DVDs, I know that. I just can't tell what they are."

John turned his head towards his son. John had hoped that this would be part of his gift to his son.

Hamish felt a thrill go through him. He slid both hands behind his back and said.

"Yeah, I heard that too, the sounds of them sliding around. I thought there may be 15-16 objects, although some could have been added into the box as a distraction from the actual presents. Given papa's sense of fair play, and he thinks I'm at a disadvantage, I don't believe he's added any objects in the box."

Hamish walked over to papa and said,

"The number 713 took me a minute to remember, given the number of times we had read that book, I'm surprised it took me that long. That and your glance to the bookcase finally told me," Hamish said as he walked past his father and over to the bookcase. He reached out, not for a book, but for a small white owl figurine.

"Hedwig," Hamish said, "I used to hold him while you would read me the books."

Hamish looked down and ran his fingers over the owl and smiled. Papa always read to him each night, even when Hamish learned to read on his own, he loved to listen to papa read.

"Papa got me all seven of the Harry Potter books and the eight movies!" Hamish said as he told his father and then stepped over to papa to give him a big hug.

John bent down and gave Hamish a hug and a kiss on the top of his head.

"Merry Christmas Hamish!"

Hamish let go and said, "Thank you papa!" and turned to tear open the box.

As Sherlock watched Hamish rip open the box with enthusiasm, he slid over to John, leaned in and whispered,

"What's the number 713 have to do with Harry Potter?"

John just smiled and said, "It's the vault number in Gringott's Wizarding Bank, where the Philosopher's Stone was kept."

Sherlock just nodded as if he knew that and had just forgotten, then said,

"Fiction...really not my area John."

John gave a chuckle as he stepped forward to help Hamish pull the books out of the box.

Sherlock spun towards the tree and said,

"How about I pass the rest of these out..." and reached for another box.

* * *

Many more presents later and the sitting room looked a right mess with wrapping paper and boxes everywhere, even a bit hanging off of the antlers. Hamish was snuggled into the sofa, his nose buried in a book, a new deerstalker on his head as well as a scarf wrapped around his neck. A few Lego sets laid on the coffee table, half completed, sitting alongside a couple of jumpers.

John and Sherlock looked their son over, and John said,

"My god Sherlock, we've spoiled him terribly."

Sherlock hummed and then said,

"This is the last year we can spoil him John, especially with a new baby on the way."

"Two new babies Sherlock!" John exclaimed as he rubbed a bit of worry into his face. "What were we thinking?"

"You were thinking that Hamish has grown up too quickly. That you missed so much of him as an infant, and you didn't want him to be an only child."

John just nodded and kept watching Hamish.

"Too bad we didn't get him that chemistry set..." John said quietly.

"Yes, it's a shame," Sherlock said softly, "But I do believe Santa Claus may have gotten it for him."

John snapped his head over to Sherlock, who was sitting grinning like a Cheshire Cat. John raised both his eyebrows high in a question, but Sherlock quickly turned his head towards Hamish and said,

"Come on Hamish, help clean up a bit," as Sherlock stood and went into the kitchen to grab a garbage bag from under the kitchen sink. He could hear Hamish groan a protest and John gently encouraged the boy.

When Sherlock came back into the sitting room, Hamish was slowly crumpling up paper. Sherlock held open the bag as Hamish and John tossed the paper in. John kept a curious eye on Sherlock.

Hamish wandered around the sitting room picking up and Sherlock said,

"Hamish, grab those bits from under the tree please,"

Hamish kneeled down to grab the paper when he saw it. A long box, wrapped in Christmas paper, hidden behind the tree. Hamish leaned in more and saw his name on it, written in a large flowing script, heavy black ink on a golden gift tag. It said it was from Santa Claus.

Hamish looked up to father, who was looking across the room at papa. Then he glanced back to papa, who was looking right at Hamish.

Hamish got flat on his tummy and wiggled his way underneath the tree, then reached out for the box.

When he had his fingers on it and started to pull, he heard papa ask,

"What do you have there, Hamish?"

Hamish gave a grunt as he pulled on the big, heavy box, and said,

"I don't know. It's another present and it has my name on it."

Papa stepped over and knelt down to help Hamish pull out the box. He cleared a space on the coffee table, and they carefully placed the box down.

John ran his fingers over the tag and said,

"It's from Santa Claus, Hamish." John carefully looked over at Sherlock.

Hamish let his jaw drop a little and just silently nodded his head as he looked the box over, when father's deep voice called out,

"Aren't you going to open it?"

Father was still standing holding the bag of garbage, although it had fallen to his side. Hamish blinked a few times and then said,

"Right, yes, of course," and then quickly started to pull at the paper. He knew what it was, just knew what it had to be, and as the paper fell away his eyes stopped moving and his hands just hovered over the box.

The words CHEM C3000 gleamed across the top of the box above the images of the holding rack, droppers, beakers, burner, and containers of chemicals that danced before Hamish's eyes. He had hoped for the C1000, maybe the C2000...but this was the C3000! Hamish had never dreamed or even thought to ask for something like this. He looked down at the bit of paper with the gift tag on it and Santa Claus's name written across it, and it gave him pause.

Sherlock watched his son's gleeful expression turn thoughtful. John stood slacked jawed at the sight of Hamish in awe of the wonderful present Sherlock had gotten him.

Hamish quickly snapped himself out of his thoughts and said,

"It's a chemistry set! The greatest chemistry set ever! I can't believe it, I just can't believe it!" and turned to his father to give him a hug.

Sherlock knelt down and hugged his son back.

"Santa knew just what to get you, didn't he?" Sherlock said softly. Hamish pulled out of the hug and looked at his father.

"Yes, Santa knew exactly what I wanted," Hamish said with a hesitant look in his eye. He started to speak, but stopped. He gave his father a long look before he said,

"It's kind of a present for both of us father, since we share our chemistry supplies," Hamish said with a hesitant smile.

Sherlock gave a cautious smile back and said,

"I suppose that's true."

Hamish gave his father a tight nod before he turned to papa,

"Can I open it?"

Papa looked down at Hamish, the mess in the sitting room and considered for a moment before he said,

"Why don't we take it upstairs for now, you can look at it on your bed, okay?"

Hamish nodded as papa picked up the box and carried it upstairs. Hamish followed through the sitting room door, turned back to see father staring out the window. Hamish wanted to go to him but thought better of it. He quickly went up the stairs. He walked in the room just as papa was setting the box down on the bed.

"Don't take too much out of the box, ok Hamish?"

Hamish nodded and climbed on the bed to pull the top off. Papa reached over and ruffled his hair a bit.

"Quite the chemistry set Hamish, I hope you like it."

Hamish nodded as watched papa walk out of the room. He looked down, listened, and waited. He heard the door close and father's voice call out,

"So now you know."

Hamish swallowed hard before he looked up to see father leaning against the inside of his bedroom door. Hamish slowly nodded.

"How did you find out?" Sherlock asked quietly.

Hamish picked at the corner of the box holding the chemistry set.

"There were a few things, "Hamish mumbled.

Sherlock carefully stepped over to the bed and sat down next to Hamish.

He slid his arm across Hamish's shoulders and looked down. Hamish looked up at his father and saw the question in his eyes.

"I was certain I knew when and where I would find Santa Claus. Right up until I saw the case files," Hamish said as he looked down.

"Yes, what about the case files?" Sherlock asked.

"There was a clear pattern of how Santa entered and exited the houses, as well as the type of physical evidence left behind. Although the details varied from case to case, the pattern was the same," Hamish looked down and wrung his hands a bit before he continued,

"Last night…if you were on a stakeout as you said you were, then you would have caught Santa Claus if he dared to come to Baker Street."

Sherlock held his tongue and then asked,

"What do you think happened last night Hamish?"

Hamish pulled in a deep breath and said,

"The way I see it, there are three possibilities. The first possibility - Santa Claus did come to Baker Street last night, you confronted him as he was delivering the chemistry set. After much soul searching, you let him go. The second possibility - After he delivered the chemistry set, you confronted Santa and took him down to Scotland Yard."

Hamish pressed his lips tightly together before he continued,

"The third possibility…" Hamish hesitated and then said softly. "There is no Santa Claus and you got me the chemistry set."

Sherlock slowly closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them again he saw his young son staring up at him. Sherlock quietly asked,

"Which of those possibilities do you think happened Hamish?"

Hamish flexed his right hand in a fist and then slowly held up three fingers, with just a little bit of a question still on his face. Hamish seemed certain, but still had some doubt remaining.

Sherlock shook his head and said,

"You're wrong Hamish,"

Hamish squished his face into a deep look of surprise. Sherlock continued,

"Well, you're partially wrong," Sherlock said, and then continued very quickly, letting the words spew out,

"Many believe that the modern version of Santa Claus is based on a real man. Perhaps Saint Nicholas from Greece, also known as Nikolaos of Myra, who had a reputation for secret gift giving. Or could be based on Sinterklaas, a legend from Netherlands. Either could be the historical basis for the current mythology."

Hamish just looked at his father and tried to understand what had sounded like a thousand words being said all at once, and then just blinked a few times. Sherlock reached down and held Hamish's hand.

"There was a man, long ago, who would give presents. Since then the story has grown."

"Why do some people believe in Santa Claus?" Hamish asked hesitantly.

Sherlock thought back to John's words about Santa and then said,

"People want to believe in the good in other people, that there could be a man out there who gives presents and wants nothing in return but to spread joy and happiness. Santa makes Christmas very special and magical for many people, Hamish."

Hamish just nodded and looked back down.

Sherlock thought for a moment and then asked,

"Hamish, how did you figure out that Santa wasn't real?"

Sherlock could see a small smile spread across Hamish's face before Hamish spoke,

"The pictures in the case files. While the lighting and angle were different, they were all of the same chimney… the one in 221C downstairs. Everything in those case files was too neat and fit together too easily. I suspect they've been altered."

Sherlock gave a chuckle and then asked,

"Why did you stay up all last night then, if you knew he wasn't coming?"

Hamish sighed,

"I couldn't be 100% positive. And I didn't want Santa to go to jail, so I stayed up just in case to scare him off. But he never came."

Hamish gave another sigh, even heavier than the last and looked like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Sherlock looked over his son and asked,

"Are you upset, that Santa Claus is not real?"

Hamish just shook his head and bit his bottom lip.

"Then what's wrong?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm worried about papa…" Hamish mumbled.

Sherlock asked, "What about papa?"

"Do we have to tell him the truth? That Santa Claus isn't real? I-I think he'll be devastated." Hamish said with a small quiver in his lip and his eyes started to water.

Sherlock quickly pulled his son into his arms for a tight, comforting hug, as Hamish tried to get his worries under control.

Hamish felt his father's words rumble through his chest.

"Oh no Hamish, don't you worry about papa. We don't have to tell him. He'll never find out. We'll make certain of it, ok?" Sherlock said as he felt Hamish give a nod against his chest and a sniffle.

Sherlock heard a creak behind him, and he turned to see John peaking in through the door, where he had been standing, listening. He had a wide smile and shiny eyes. He gave Sherlock a quick nod and then stepped away.

"It's going to be alright Hamish," Sherlock said as he held Hamish a bit tighter.

* * *

John walked through the flat, shutting off the lights. As he walked through the sitting room, he gathered up Hamish's coat and new scarf. He called out the Sherlock,

"Sherlock, can you get Hamish bundled up? I need to gather up the presents."

Sherlock came walking out of his bedroom, already to go to his mother's house for the evening. Dressed sharply in a suit, he silently grabbed the coat and scarf from John and bolted up the stairs to Hamish's room.

Hamish was sitting on the floor, surrounded by every single piece of chemistry equipment he had, apparently taking inventory. He popped his head up when he heard his father come in through the door.

"Ready to go Hamish?"

Hamish nodded and stood. He smoothed the wrinkles out of his trousers and straightened his jumper. Hamish carefully stepped over the glass beakers, and walked towards his father.

As Sherlock knelt down to help Hamish into his coat, he could feel the tension radiating off of Hamish's body.

Sherlock looked his son in the eye, and Hamish looked away as he said,

"I should tell you father," Hamish said hesitantly, "When I was concerned about Santa showing up. You know, when I wasn't certain if Santa was real or not. I wanted to do everything I could to keep Santa away."

Sherlock gave Hamish a look out of the corner of his eye, as he tied the scarf around his neck. He nodded for his son to continue.

"Well, I may have deliberately done something naughty, thinking that would change Santa's mind about coming to Baker Street," Hamish said as he turned an embarrassed look down to the floor.

Sherlock stood up and crowded over his son, raising his hands to his hips.

"Hamish, what have you done?"

Hamish closed his eyes and sighed.

"I may have ordered take aways online, using Uncle Mycroft's credit card from your wallet."

Sherlock raised a questioning brow.

"I may have ordered them throughout the night, and had them delivered at Uncle Mycroft's house."

Sherlock tried to suppress a smile and his glee as he stared with a stern face down at his son.

He'd been waiting all afternoon for Hamish to tell him about the take aways…all eight of them that Mycroft had texted Sherlock about throughout the night. It certainly felt like Christmas today.

Sherlock cleared his throat,

"Well, that was really quite naughty Hamish. I expect you to apologize straight away to Uncle Mycroft when we get to grandmother's house."

Hamish just nodded his head solemnly. He trudged down the stairs in silence, where behind him his father was grinning like a mad man.

As Hamish filed by John and headed towards the front door, Sherlock paused and gave John a fast kiss and then smiled even wider than before.

John looked at Sherlock with suspicion and asked,

"What on earth are you grinning about?"

Sherlock quickly placed his hands on both of John's shoulders, looked him in the eye and said,

"Hamish just gave me the greatest Christmas present…EVER!"


End file.
